


Endverse

by whichstiel



Series: Season 14 Codas [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camp Chitaqua (Supernatural), Endverse, Episode Tag, Episode: s14e20 Moriah, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Not Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), References to Drugs, episode coda, spn 14x20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 15:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18607774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: “Dude,” Somebody says just outside their open window. The moth-eaten curtains flutter in a slight breeze, scraping the evergreen-scent of the surrounding woods into the tiny cabin. “Don’t forget to look for more toilet paper when you raid that nest. We’re almost out.”





	Endverse

“Dude,” Somebody says just outside their open window. The moth-eaten curtains flutter in a slight breeze, scraping the evergreen-scent of the surrounding woods into the tiny cabin. “Don’t forget to look for more toilet paper when you raid that nest. We’re almost out.”

They’re innocuous words, Castiel thinks. But for some reason they’ve triggered an eye roll so deep that the back of Dean’s head rocks against the wall. “What is it?” Castiel asks as Dean sinks back against the knotted pine, eyes slipping shut. 

Dean opens his eyes, flicking a glance at Castiel before looking back down at the task spread out before them. They’re working their way through the latest weapons haul. Some doomsday prepper had a fully stocked root cellar just east of the Rockies, carved into the stone-dry flat plains of western Kansas. The prepper had been long dead by the time they found it, likely killed by the vengeful ghost they had to burn out of the cellar before seizing the gun stockpile. It had been a sweet victory - sweet because it was damn easy, for once.

Somebody else could do this work - cleaning and oiling the metal of the firearms. Loading ammunition and noting what they needed to scavenge. But Dean insisted on it. Castiel thinks it’s something akin to meditation for him, a way to unwind. It’s become apparent that with humans as well as angels, a person can get away with a lot when they aren’t a figurehead. Sam spends every waking moment bolstering the morale of their dwindling forces, planning raids, and strategizing supplies. It’s given Dean a space to slip into the background when he needs it. And when he does, these days he brings Castiel along. 

“We’re low on toilet paper?” Castiel prompts, because Dean has picked up a magazine of ammunition and is staring at it like it’s suddenly transformed into a piece of fruit.

Dean blinks like he’s surfacing from a dream. He looks vulnerable between one drop of his lashes and another, and then his jaw tightens, pushing a line of tension along the tendon. “Chuck used to be obsessed with toilet paper,” he says at last. His voice is careful. Measured. “In the other…”

Castiel draws back with a careful nod. They’ve spoken of this from time to time. He understands that Dean suffers through a certain measure of _déjà vu_ from it, even though the circumstances of their occupation of Camp Chitaqua are wildly different. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs and slips the magazine into the gun he’s been carefully cleaning and rebuilding. He checks the safety, then sets it aside. The completed firearms form neat lines on the floor, organized by type and caliber. Dean reaches for a long shotgun, scratch-free with a beautiful walnut finish. He holds it absently, then sets it down again. Turning to Castiel, he meets his eye and says, “Lucifer said no matter what I did, we’d end up here.” He laughs bitterly. “And here we fucking are.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes. “Lucifer was a _child_. And the imposition of this scenario by Chuck has no bearing on your actions, Dean. Besides, this is already vastly different from before. Sam’s alive…”

“Yeah,” Dean concedes. “But still.”

“But nothing. You’re not the same man you were back then, Dean. And I’m not the same either.” Castiel folds his hands in his lap to prevent himself from reaching out and trying to soothe the tension from Dean’s frown. 

“Well, that’s for damn sure.” Dean flashes a brief, crooked smile. “You still had such a stick up your ass back then. After I got back, d’you remember what I told you?”

Of course Castiel remembers. That was the first time he had felt _seen_ by Dean Winchester. Suddenly, in Dean’s eyes, he was more than a tool, more than an angel trying to impose his will on the world. He was a _person_. It had scraped into the core of him, that look. “You said, ‘Don’t ever change.’”

“That was bullshit.” Dean picks up the shotgun and begins to dismantle it with the speed born from muscle memory. “You _have_ changed and I’m damn glad of it.”

Castiel grins as something warm and light unfurls in his chest. “Me too.”

They work in silence for a while. Outside, birds sing and insects whir. Chuck’s apocalypse targeted his most uncontrollable creations: humanity. Out here in the forest, it’s almost like the world’s at peace. Plants and animals still adhere to their natural cycles. The only climate disruptions seem to be from the long-accumulating human causes, rather than from Chuck’s capricious interference. For now, at least.

Out here, Castiel can imagine it sometimes - peace. Some days they have time to sit on the porch of the cabin and look out on the overgrown woods beyond. The fireflies come out when the sun goes down just enough to leave the sky alight with a deep indigo. The insects paint constellations across the grass, dancing over the cooling ground with erratic bats in hot pursuit. It’s predictable. Comforting. The engines of the Earth don’t stop for a mere apocalypse.

Castiel can look over at Dean in moments like those and imagine peace, sweating beers between them and the low burr of frog song a symphony for the evening. 

“I read the book,” Castiel says, and then snaps his mouth shut. Internally, he chastises himself, because he’d managed to avoid revealing that for months now. But something about the soft fall of Dean’s lashes, the hard line of his jaw, the tremble in one hand, barely perceptible… He couldn’t stop himself. “I read Chuck’s book. _The End_?”

Dean sighs and shakes his head, and Castiel attempts to joke about it. “I haven’t changed so much.” Castiel rattles his trench coat-clad sleeves. “No drugs.”

Dean shudders. “Thank fuck for that. Not that I haven’t ever, myself… Pot, kettle, and all that.” He reaches out to brush his knuckles along Castiel’s knee. “But I’m glad. We all gotta stay in fighting form.”

Fatalism drips from Dean’s words. “We’re better together,” Castiel tells him. He forces hope he doesn’t quite feel into his assurances. “We’ll get through this.” They might. The fight advances and recedes. They go on offense and defense. They lay low and attack hard. And they’re still here.

But - _god_ \- sometimes Castiel takes his mind off the fight. Sometimes his eyes alight on Dean and the air crackles between them and Castiel finds himself thinking about that damn book. Again.

Castiel’s never been much of one for fiction, but he supposes that Chuck’s gospels only ever had the veneer of a storybook. In that book, Castiel had been a sensual character, drowning in sex and drugs. Years ago, it had been a ludicrous prospect. Reading about himself, transformed by despair, had seemed to be more of a taunt than anything else. But now, Castiel understands. Once he started letting the world in, he only wanted more. 

Castiel understood, even reading the book back then, that the Castiel of _The End_ had become romantically involved with Dean. Chuck didn’t need to write explicit scenes about quiet nights in their shared cabin, in their single bed, for Castiel to imagine it like it was a movie reel playing in his mind. So now, with all the trappings of that seemingly fictitious world draped around them, Castiel feels like a character in that movie. And the screen play is screaming at him to kiss, to pull, to hold. To _want_.

“It’s not like any of that this time,” Castiel says, his emotions tangled like a cord left in a pocket. “I’m in this with you to the end.”

Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, rocking Castiel to the side with the force of it. “You were, though. You were with me to the end.” Self-loathing colors his words black.

Castiel reaches up and grips Dean’s wrist, a swell of hot anger rising up like a tongue of flame. “Not like that,” Castiel promises, pulling Dean’s hand away from his shoulder and cradling it over his lap. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean I’m _with you_ , to the end.”

Dean looks at his hand, at his wrist. His skin is turning cream around Castiel’s grip and, chagrined, Castiel loosens his hold. Dean stays his hands when he tries to pull away. “I’m glad,” Dean says. 

The breeze blows at the curtains. The cabin smells of trees and dust and dirt and gun oil and _Dean_. 

Some moments are fine, delicate things - a swirl of dust catching the light. And some moments are cobweb strong and surprisingly hard to dissolve. Dean looks up from their joined hands and stares into Castiel’s eyes. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Sometimes I wonder,” he says at last, voice husky. “Were we written? An angel and a human allying against all the big bads in the world? Or was this…”

“Us?” Castiel supplies. He finds himself drifting closer. He’s pulled Dean’s hand to his lap; his wrist rests against Castiel’s thigh. “I think we did this, don’t you? The choices we’ve made. We choose to be together. To…to fight together. To—”

As natural as a wing settling into place, Dean kisses him. His lips are warm and soft, slightly parted. 

Castiel has come a long way in the past few years. Touch has become something he’s not only familiar with, but craves and offers freely. Perhaps it’s a mark of just how much fantasizing he’s done about this moment, because Castiel sinks into the kiss without a moment’s hesitation. It seems inevitable because it’s _them_. Dean and Castiel. 

When Dean pulls away with a soft sigh, Castiel pursues instead, letting go of Dean’s wrist and shifting onto his hip so that - _yes_ \- he can press against Dean and hold his head - _just so_ \- to kiss him properly. 

“I’ve been fantasizing about that,” Castiel tells Dean several minutes later, as Dean settles back to suck in air. His hair is mussed, his color high, and his eyes hold a fire Castiel has sorely missed. If kissing brings this kind of life to Dean, Castiel vows to do it every day. Several times per day. Repeat as necessary. 

“You have?” Dean asks in a strangled tone. “Fuck, Cas. Wish I’d known.” He wraps a hand around the fabric of Castiel’s lapel and pulls at it for emphasis. Dean looks at the guns on the floor, the evidence of work to be done, a fight _in media res_. 

Dean shifts up and tugs against Castiel’s clothing, even as he slings one leg across the weapons to settle himself over Castiel’s bent knee. Suddenly he is close - so close. Happiness rolls off of him, lemon yellow as he bows low and catches at Castiel’s mouth with his own. 

Kissing does nothing to further the story. Love won’t kill their enemies, or bring the people they lost back to life. 

In all Chuck's works, these fine moments were only dust motes glistening briefly over his overarching stories. _But it’s the best part of the story_ , Castiel thinks as he sinks his senses into Dean. And if Castiel has his way, one day it’ll be the only one that matters. Love will be the only story left to tell.

Outside, a bird trills a melody, carried by the wind to fill the forest with song.

**Author's Note:**

> This nod to Endverse goes out to woollycas <3
> 
> Happy hiatus, everyone!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
